The Dance of the Seven Aprons
by Lavinia Swire
Summary: Friday night was ladies' night below stairs at Downton Abbey, and ladies' night meant Mr. Bates and his fur thong. Entirely crack. (Rated super duper M for potentially scarring mental images and hip thrusts.)


**The triumphant return of the crackfic! Blame my sister for this. **

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"Go on, Mr. Bates, get 'em off!"

"We love you, Mr. Bates!"

A wolf whistle, apparently from Mrs. Patmore.

Carson could hear the raucous laughter and shouts from where he had locked himself in his pantry and attempted to soundproof the door with the pile of silver that needed to be polished. Thomas could hear it from the yard where he lurked with a large quantity of cigarettes, wondering desperately why the hell Miss O'Brien opted to stay in the kitchen while all _that_ was going on. The footmen who hadn't managed to escape to the pub had either gone to bed in a futile attempt to escape from the hideous noises that seeped through the floorboards or were drinking brandy in a cupboard and talking as loudly as they could to try and cover the din.

And each of them sighed and attempted to get as far from the noise as they possibly could, shielding themselves with work or alcohol and praying for it all to end.

For Friday night was ladies' night below stairs at Downton Abbey, and ladies' night meant Mr. Bates and his fur thong.

The makeshift banner above the 'stage' (that is, the kitchen table), bore the modest slogan:

_John Bates – by day a valet, by night a primal beast _

Bates was utterly in his element. He had been performing these shows for the ladies of Downton since soon after his arrival, and had been a huge hit. All the women agreed that his walking cane had a certain allure, particularly when used in certain routines…

However, the favourite events by far were those that fell on a female servant's birthday. Aside from the signed photographs and codpieces the lucky lady received, in the evening Bates would perform his piece de resistance.

And tonight, outside in the yard, Thomas was almost deafened by the sudden howls and whoops coming from the kitchens. Oh dear. This could only mean one thing. Bates was about to perform his speciality routine.

The evening had been immensely entertaining so far. Bates' pole-dance with his stick was a classic routine, and Bates had really been going for it, which had led to several pairs of knickers being flung onto the stage. That particular performance had ended with Mrs. Patmore leading a few of the kitchen maids in a stage invasion. Bates had instantly been floored by the mob, and Anna had had the arduous task of giving him mouth-to-mouth to make sure he was fully prepared to continue the show.

But the best was yet to come, as everybody knew.

Bates was standing on the stage in a dressing gown, looking soulful.

"Today, as I hope you know, is the birthday of the most precious person to me in the whole world. Anna. My love, my life, the only one who has my heart -"

"Get on with it!" bellowed somebody, possibly Mrs. Patmore

Bates continued. "For my darling Anna's birthday present – well, one of her birthday presents," he added, giving a saucy wink to the crowd, "it's everybody's favourite, the Dance of the Seven Aprons."

The kitchen was filled with more whoops and applause, and Daisy, in her role as glamorous assistant, turned off all but one of the lights. With a flourish, Bates hurled his dressing gown into the crowd to reveal various aprons stolen from the kitchen, worn in strategic places and tied in mysterious ways so they could easily be ripped off.

One of the maids launched into a jaunty tune on the piano, and Bates began the routine. The cheering and whistling grew louder and more frenzied by the second as, one by one, the aprons vanished.

All too soon, there was only one apron left, slung casually around Bates' waist. Everyone was going wild. Daisy readied herself next to the light switch.

At that moment, three things happened. Bates made to fling off the final apron, striking a dramatic pose. The kitchen door opened. And Daisy, spinning around frantically to see who had just come into the room, forgot about her crucial job of switching off the lights.

The final apron fell to the floor. Lord Grantham's expression was partway between confused and in-the-final-throes-of-a-heart-attack.

"Bates, would you care to explain what is going on? Why are you on the table? What – oh God, has Rosamund been here?"

Bates was frozen in the middle of an enthusiastic hip thrust.

Performing a casual sidestep so that she was standing between her husband and Lord Grantham, Anna tried not to look anyone in the eye. Would this be more or less awkward if it hadn't happened before?

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**Trololol. Hope I've not traumatised anyone too much, and it would be lovely if you left a review!**


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